The Scout: The Definitive Account of David Headley and the Mumbai Attacks

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Prologue

The Courier

There were five passengers in the queue ahead of him, the immigration assistant guiding them in turn as the officers scrutinised and stamped their passports. Tonight, there were about twenty counters in this vast section of Mumbai’s Sahar International Airport, each steadily ejecting a stream of suitably checked travellers who then disappeared into the adjoining area housing the Customs authorities.

The courier had done this before, many times, and yet this instance was not the same. Cautious by nature, he had sensitive antenna that picked up the tiniest of vibrations. He had sensed the urgency during the briefing by Sajid, who was usually taciturn, and spoke in measured tones. But this time he had been unable to disguise a tension that was more felt than heard. This one was special, perhaps the biggest so far.

The courier was used to going in blind. He was trained to see himself as a messenger, travelling between two points but you don’t do this time after time without developing a gut feel for the sensitivities involved. This time … his skin crawled with the memory of the raw anxiety emanating from Sajid.

‘Do you anticipate any problems?’ Sajid had asked. He had mentally recoiled at the question; voicing of apprehensions was counterproductive unless the dimensions of the mission gave cause for concern. The man was accustomed to fielding the big ones. So was Sajid.

The courier had shaken his head.‘Nothing that I can think of,’ he had replied, a vague perception of something massive moving above him, fluttering silently in the frigid air. The unspoken message—the intelligence had to reach Karachi.

Three more passengers to go: a twenty-something business suit talking into his BlackBerry, and a mother-daughter duo with three suitcases. He, himself, carried a duffel bag with the intel securely taped to its bottom—a sheaf of charts barely a centimetre thick, and folded to the exact dimensions of an A4 sheet. In his laptop pouch he had digital copies, too, loaded in the 32GB memory stick, along with the charging cord. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

He slowly shifted his weight in his sneakers without moving his feet, while rolling his shoulders, just like he had been taught. Relax, he told himself.

The immigration guide motioned the business suit through, and the courier suddenly found himself breathing through his mouth. Slipping his right hand under the sweater draped over his left forearm, he placed two fingers on the inside of his wrist above the thumb, and counted. Twenty beats in fifteen seconds—that made it eighty a minute. Not good, not good, his mind screamed, we will have to do better than that. Don’t hyperventilate now, slow deep breaths, nice and easy.

‘Counter number fourteen,’ said the guide, pointing to the left, three lanes down.

The immigration officer wore a blue shirt; he was clean-shaven and about thirty-five years of age. His eyes flicked over the pages of the passport, turning it upwards with a slight frown. It was the favourite trick of document screeners all over the world, to pretend to detect an anomaly thereby inducing an atmosphere of apprehension and then glancing at the passenger to observe his reaction. The courier had placed the bag down by his feet— an automatic action calculated to minimise visual input, and to allow the document-checker to function more speedily. The immigration stamp made a metallic clack as it punched down on the passport, and he walked towards the security check zone.

Deep and slow breaths, he reminded himself, deep and slow. He was glad that he had made liberal use of the anti-perspirant in the men’s room before joining the line. The uniformed CISF man looked at him as he placed the duffel on the rollers of the Smith Heimann baggage screener.

The courier stood on the wooden stool as the hand-held metal detector moved over his body. He glanced to his left and saw his duffel emerge from the other end of the screener. His stomach muscles clenched as he watched the constable stamp his baggage tag. He collected his boarding card, slipped his wallet back into his trousers, and picking up his duffel took the escalator to the lower level towards the boarding gates. He sat down opposite the snack counter, and sipped from a half-litre bottle of mineral water while gazing at the mounted television twenty feet away.

‘This is a boarding call for passengers travelling by Emirates to Dubai,’ blared the overhead speakers, and the man stood up.

A five-minute wait later, while the snake of passengers moved into the aerobridge:

‘Excuse me, Sir, your passport and boarding card please.’

The courier felt the sweat starting to bead the top of his head. The official flicked through his passport and checked the stamps on his boarding card. ‘Thank you, Sir, have a good flight.’

Numbly,he stepped into the aircraft, his scalp prickling in the cool air.

It was thirty-five minutes before the Boeing 777 lifted off from the runway. As he let out a long slow breath of pure relief, he realised that there had never been any danger at all; his papers had been in perfect order. After fifteen minutes the aircraft reached cruising altitude and banked to the north.

ONE

Consensus

The two men walked down the loose gravel path bordering the concrete swimming tank. The Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT) headquarters at Muridke lay sprawled across a 250 acre expanse of land, about thirty kilometres from Lahore. It was a self-contained complex with mosques, textile and furniture factories, sports and military training facilities, markets, trade centres and residential quarters. A newly added marine operations training block nestled by the lake at the southern end of the facility.

They reached the office building which had a library on the first floor. The younger man hurried forward and opened the door, releasing the aroma of freshly brewed Turkish coffee.

The other, swung his cane as he walked around the table to sit in the leather-backed chair facing the entrance. Hafiz Muhammad Saeed, the Amir of Jamaat-ud-Dawa, was a round-shouldered bearded man approaching sixty. He leaned forward on his cane, and gazed at the writing pad on the desk without seeing it. His brow wrinkled as he weighed options, his mind probing the issue at hand. He had thick wrists and long-tapered fingers, which at the moment, were curling and uncurling slowly—an unconscious mannerism of his. The silver band of his wrist watch glinted on his right hand with the movement.

His companion, Zakirur Rehman Lakhvi, Military Commander of the LeT, settled himself on a sofa a few feet away. Adjusting the folds of his Pathani suit he waited for his senior to speak. A master tactician, he knew, after considering all aspects, what needed to be done. He sat patiently as the shadows outside lengthened with the approach of dusk. The Amir would be slower and more analytical in his approach, but the conclusion would inevitably be the same; Zaki could not see how it would be otherwise. They had no second choice. He watched the Amir contemplating the implications.

Saeed broke his reverie and raised his head. ‘What about the manpower, the resources?’

Zaki nodded in affirmation; the validity of the question was superfluous—the old man was just thinking aloud. He watched as the Amir stood up and walked across to the bookcase, and as his fingers moved in a random pattern across the spines of the volumes.

‘I have double-checked the figures for the last two quarters,’ Zaki said, ‘and Majid has not stopped complaining since the Bahawalpur unit joined the 313 Brigade.’

The Amir sighed as he walked back to his chair. He knew that dissent was contagious and, of late, instances of shifting allegiances to the al-Qaeda and other Baluchi and Pashtu groups were on the rise. This climate of malcontention succeeded in redirecting sponsors towards Afghanistan and the al-Qaeda, causing the rate of inflow of funds and donations to become a matter of concern as well.

The LeT had been created to address the Kashmir issue and, for the past thirty years, it had done a great job of keeping a majority of the Indian armed forces engaged—at great expense— by resorting to asymmetrical warfare. There had been a huge sense of achievement over the last two decades; but now, the Amir realised, the situation had changed.

Both men knew that Pakistan was undergoing a social identity crisis because of increased conflict in Afghanistan and the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA). The American drones didn’t help matters, and a debate had begun amongst the militant outfits about the merits of waging jihad in Kashmir and Afghanistan. The essential problem was, the Amir thought, about how to attract more headlines, recruits and funds.

‘Well, Zaki,’ he said, with a shrug of the shoulders, ‘we will have to escalate the Mumbai plan.’ Almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘This should go down especially well with our cousins in the government.’

The Military Commander smiled at the old man’s reference to the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) of Pakistan; both hated the increasingly unsolicited guidance and restrictions placed on them by the agency. All the same, they had long recognised the futility of resistance, more so in the face of the undeniable advantages of feeding off each other in the long-standing marriage of convenience, albeit between two widely differing organisations. The ISI was, Zaki reflected, a perpetually-chaffing but necessary armour donned by the LeT.

In a sense, Lashkar was toeing the official ISI line which, as they were aware, was under considerable pressure to prevent any manner of integration between the militant organisations focussed on the Kashmir issue, and the Taliban-based outfits in Afghanistan. It was a constant struggle for them to keep these two lethal outfits from congregating together lest the resultant activity spiral the country out of the already bruised fingertips of the bureaucracy and the government. The Amir had no doubt that any escalation in activities within India would meet with the wholehearted approval of ISI’s highest echelons. Any shifting and hike in the theatre of violence from the domestic arena to India, would serve the dual purposes of unifying the Kashmir-based outfits and increasing revenues and recruitment.

There were sounds of movement outside. The Amir turned to face the window, and looked towards the west as a platoon of cadets returned from an endurance run. Dressed in army fatigues and jungle boots, and carrying AK-47s, most of them had managed to stay in some semblance of a formation. There were the usual couple of stragglers, obviously winded.

‘They will shape up pretty soon; these are good boys.’ Zaki had joined him at the window, his eyes assessing the cadets. ‘This bunch comes from the mountains.’ They watched their retreating backs for a moment and then returned to the desk.

‘Arrange for a meeting,’ said the Amir. ‘I will see you after Mahgrib at the Qadisiya Mosque this Friday.’ The Military Commander acknowledged the instruction with a nod, and left the Amir’s office. He strode towards the parking lot where his driver and bodyguards waited; there was much work to be done.

TWO

The Karachi Project

It was not a large room—about 400 square feet—but there was space enough for a large table and half a dozen chairs. A desktop computer perched on a low-slung table in one corner, the plug a few feet away from the sockets. It looked as if it had not been used in a long time; in fact, Sajid had never seen it turned on. A flat screen 42-inch plasma television was mounted on the wall, close to a large whiteboard and a collection of coloured magic markers. The wall opposite held a dozen smaller televisions. There were no windows, which was just the way Sajid Abdul Majid wanted it. It made for good security against parabolic microphones or vibration-sensing laser devices. Even the doors were sound masked.

Sajid was a man of medium height with the lean sinewy build of a long-distance runner. In his mid-thirties, he exuded a restless energy manifested in his constantly moving hands. He walked across the room to the adjoining washroom and splashed water on his face. It had been a long and dusty ride from his house near the Garrison Golf Club in Muzzafarabad. After drying himself with one of the several cloth napkins on the rack, he stepped back into the room to await the others. He opened the large box of Bateel sweets to reveal the smooth-skinned seedless dates that Zaki liked so much. Sajid always had a couple of boxes delivered whenever someone came from Dubai. He checked the water jug and glasses, and opening the fridge near the table satisfied himself regarding the stock of refreshments.

After all, this room was the nerve centre for all Karachi-based operations of the LeT and Sajid was the Chief.

The first to arrive were Muzammil and Mohammed Yacoub. Muzammil, at six feet and six inches, towered over Mohammed, who was no midget himself at five feet and eleven inches. Muzammil was perhaps the closest confidant of Zakirur Rehman; he was also close to Haji Ashraf, the Treasurer of the LeT. Currently in charge of the India enterprise, he was still basking in the glory of his successful planning and execution of the Akshardham Temple attack. Muzammil’s proximity to the Treasurer also added to his stature within the Jamaat. His self-confidence was evident in the way he hooked back the nearest chair with his toe and settled his considerable bulk into it.

Mohammed, Chief of the newly formed naval (marine operations) wing of the LeT, moved down the table in a languid and relaxed manner, with the calm watchful eyes that marked men of patience, and sat opposite Sajid. If things were going to head the way Sajid suspected, this man would have a key role to play in the proceedings. The door of the room swung inwards and all three men got up as the LeT Military Commander walked in, flanked by Abu Qahafa and Al Qama.

Abu Qahafa was a Senior Commander at the LeT, and arguably the best trainer of its special operations cadres in the Pakistan-Afghanistan theatre. More than once, Sajid had seen Qahafa’s brown eyes flash fire as he berated an unfortunate trainee for a barely discernible flaw in technique or tactics. His long forehead and nose, coupled with the trailing beard, went a long way towards commanding respect and instilling fear in equal measure.

Qahafa started to move around Zaki with the intention of pulling out a chair for him, but was pre-empted by Sajid who had already reached the head of the table and invited the Military Commander to be seated. With a slight smile, Zaki nodded his appreciation. Al Qama secured the door, and the core group of the Karachi Project switched to active mode.

‘What’s the latest from Gilani?’ Zaki asked Sajid. ‘How has he shaped up so far?’

‘He is good, no mistakes yet. A trifle cocky though,’ answered Sajid.

‘I don’t mind arrogance,’ observed Zaki, ‘it is indicative of confidence; as long as it doesn’t mutate to recklessness.’

‘Oh, the man is not reckless; he had worked hard and he has a certain flair about him.’

The Commander nodded. Daood Gilani was indeed somewhat unique, a man who was at ease, equally, in the Islamic and the Western worlds, and who fitted in effortlessly into whatever circles he found himself in. It was just as well, he thought—a scout’s competency lay in his capacity to go into enemy territory and return, undetected, after a reconnaissance. Allah, in His infinite mercy, had sent them the perfect scout.

‘Well, brief him about the expanded dimensions at the earliest,’ instructed Zaki. ‘I discussed the operation with the Amir yesterday.’

The others straightened and, unconsciously, leaned forward.

‘We will now pursue multiple objectives, with a mix of selective and random kill patterns; I want a surgical operation with an element of guerilla warfare, a hostage and barricade scenario, and extended siege conditions.’

There was a discernible intake of breaths around the table.

Tall order, thought Abu Qahafa, his mind racing furiously, very tall order indeed. This was going to be a big one. He was sifting through options, requirements and alternatives. Every man present was a veteran of covert asymmetrical warfare, and a survivor of numerous field engagements.

‘It will have to be recce-dependent; will the assault team have egress options?’ he asked.

‘That is yet to be decided,’ said Zaki.

Not likely, Qahafa thought. His eyes inspected the other faces and saw the same expression of comprehension as was probably on his own; except Mohammed, the man never looked anything but thoughtful, observed Qahafa.

Mohammed nodded slowly. His presence was evidence that a seaborne assault was one of the alternatives under consideration. The logistics of such an operation would be crucial. What with the ISI peering over their collective shoulders, and the need for compartmentalised information, this one appeared to guarantee ulcers and insomnia.

‘All right,’ said Zaki, ‘I want an outline prepared. Get together with Muzammil and Pasha (Abdur Rehman Hashim, now ex-LeT) at Rawalpindi and make a list of materials. I want spacers inserted for every procurement.’

Sajid nodded; spacers were the non-traceable go-betweens for procurement of all vital equipment—arms, munitions, communication devices etcetera. The setup would employ several layers for the ordering, payment, and transportation of each item.

‘Yacoub,’ Zaki went on, ‘list all outside sources and vet them. External agencies can be liaised with only after I give the ok.’ Interaction with other organisations and groups would be inevitable in a large operation but it would be kept to a minimum, and classified, to preserve secrecy.

‘Haji Ashraf will revert about finances,’ Zaki continued, ‘and I will personally keep our cousins in the loop. Communications?’

‘I will put up the bulletin boards and protocols for each of us,’ said Sajid. Secure email ids would have to be